


Only You

by WanderingTiredly



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Death, Gothic, M/M, gothic literature style baby, has oc's for a few seconds, lowkey a character study, old timey, ship is implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 19:03:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19183810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingTiredly/pseuds/WanderingTiredly
Summary: A sick, sick dependency can begin to fester. Felix and Locus know this, but they're not sure how to handle it.





	Only You

**Author's Note:**

> i turned this in? as an actual assignment? my teacher read this?   
> 100 points in the gradebook  
> he was like 'oh it doesn't have to be more than 3 pages'   
> and i was like: ????????? you want me to develop characters you can care about and feel some investment towards in three pages??? i'm not that good at writing yet  
> but i wanted to share this because seriously i need more lolix content in this fucking fandom  
> and yeah, this is not my normal style of writing, trust me. 
> 
> also, hmu on tumblr and talk lolix with me! i love these boys so much i want to hear about them more! xx

Every single time the door creaked open, Felix’s brain would wind around itself with a flurry of thoughts. Just trying to function was as though he were driving on icy roads in a snowstorm. Signals firing through his brain, detailing each infraction that could potentially occur. Was Locus entering alone? Did he, perhaps, bring a guest along with him? Both ideas stoked a fire within him. Locus being alone meant that once again, Felix’s hold remained in place over the other man. Bringing a guest, well, that meant Felix could release his tension. 

Locus should know better by now, really he should. His partnership with Felix was complicated as one could imagine. Their bond: a decayed limb that hung on with nothing more than rotting skin. Both knew they should sever it, but could never bring themselves to cut out such a toxically familiar portion of their lives. It had gone on so long already it seemed to be part of who they were. The defining piece of their identities had once been each other. 

Desperately, Felix needed Locus in his life. A certain fervor to his passions, a wild fury in his eyes and a pathetic note in his voice at the prospect at being abandoned. In short, Locus meant everything to him. He was his only reach for survival. 

To best describe their relationship, one would need to reflect on how the dependency started. On a cold, crisp, autumn evening, Felix had been forcibly removed from his home. His clothing did little to keep Jack Frost’s fingers from digging up and down his skin, leaving terrible blotches of red. 

As it started, his mother laid unconscious on the ground as a result of his sister’s carelessness. Yet, as soon as she realized what happened, she blamed him. She ran to father in a quick succession of movements, able to regain her thoughts faster than Felix, and pleaded with her father to remove Felix from this household. That he was a danger and he was not to be trusted. His father had been restlessly searching for a reason to remove the disgrace from his life. Felix was the product of his own lechery, and his mother was the house maid, both of them were but cogs in the machine of his father's life. 

Removing him was simple. From then on, Felix was driven with nothing but anger and resentment. He felt thrown into the wind with the speed of a horse when whipped. Nothing to protect him but a kitchen knife he’d stolen before his father dragged him by his neck like a mother cat would her kittens--Felix was practically defenseless, and worst of all, he was all alone. Certainly, he knew, he needed to find shelter and a way to survive. 

Then, though, he was slightly more naive and his heart possessed more faith for the common man. This leading to an unfortunate series of circumstances, in which, outside of the local tavern, Felix was offered a precarious job with the potential to gain thousands of credits and build a reputation for himself by an odd man who refused to name himself. At the cost of what, Felix wondered, would come in due time. 

His first cases were to apprehend subjects. These were dangerous. More room for error than anything he had learned in his studies. He wasn’t used to the streets yet, and his old life style certainly didn’t include anything quite so brash. Luxurious households and golden fountains were what surrounded him in his upbringing--now he invaded such places with the intention to win back a castle for himself. 

Eventually, the name ‘Felix’ was just like ringing a bell. Some gawked, some awed, and others had grown accustomed to it. It all depended where you were from, what circles you ran in, and Felix wanted a hand in them all. Driven with rage and fear, it was no wonder that Felix was a man on fumes. He wanted his family to know that he survived, that he was more than what he’d been thrown out for--he was a survivor, and now, he was a killer. 

The progression was almost natural. Eventually, apprehending criminals was too easy. Seeing them get to survive--it was disgusting. It made his heart pound, and his blood run hot with passion and fury. Why did they get to live? Why did he not deserve it? Why had he been cast aside so simply when these criminals were wanted? Had he not done enough?

Of course, cases of such dubious intent sent his way were described as condemning. To kill, to take another human life, it violated the ten commandments. Felix knew a long time ago that he’d struck a deal with devil. Whoever that man was, years ago, that man was the devil. He saw in Felix what his parents did not--someone who could make a difference. 

Being assigned to such a case was different because these cases were suggested to be taken with someone to accompany you. Someone to work alongside you and help the scene along. In what Felix would consider to be a great fear of his own, it was to allow another person into his life and to trust that person with his freedom. The work was long past the lines of illegality and getting caught meant getting hanged. Would he truly be comfortable putting such a valuable portion--his own survival--into the hands of another?

And yet, killing another person, he wanted to do it. Wanted to practice, before he saw his family again. The man he pictured late at night while sharpening his tools, the man of whom cast him aside without a second thought. He waited patiently each day, waiting for his name to cultivate meaning, waiting for his father to stew in his own terror and his sister to bury herself in vanities, all of this before he watched the life drain from their eyes. 

So he allowed himself this. Another name had been building around the same time. Different from his own, this name was spoken with a established sort of chill. This name referred to the mechanical killer, the same of which was known for his manner efficiency and speed. ‘Locus’ was the name that was whispered around booths of pubs and counters of taverns. Felix needed to seek out this figure and why it was he was able to work alone. 

Decidedly, he consulted several different drunken men at The Rising Sun, a pub several cities east of his original home, and attempted to learn more about the cryptic name. After purchasing several rounds and encouraging many unyoung men to spill their knowledge, Felix nearly resigned himself to quit for the night. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would find out about this Locus figure. 

Creeping out of the pub, rounding the corners to disappear into the dark alley, he found himself pressed against the wall, with a blade against his throat. His small frame doing nothing to press off the angry man who heaved heavy, filthy breaths into Felix’s ear. Said breath smelt like rotting fish, and Felix could practically see the puffs of air come out as green rather than the white the cold night would normally offer. 

“What business do ye’ have with Locus?” The accent was thick and the raspy voice curdled in his ear like old milk. Felix assessed the situation: it was clear he had no access to his knives, nor did he have a safe way to move without getting his throat sliced. 

Felix swallowed thickly, burying the fear that raced in his chest. He hadn’t survived the tortures of life only to be killed in an alleyway where no one would recognize him. Instead, he gave no answer, hoping to deter the heavy set man. 

Again, he was slammed into the wall, buttons from the other man’s tunic pressing uncomfortably in his back--Felix nearly yelped. “Did ye’ hear me? Answer the bloody question! That man killed ma’ wife and it would do ma’ good to kill ye’.” 

Felix’s vision went white when the knife began to slice through skin, the blade was sharp and Felix saw the glimmer from the moonlight reflect against the wall. Several curses spilt from his mouth, his pride forcing him to bite down the whimper that surfaced in the back of his throat. Desperation clawed in his stomach in the familiar way it did years ago on that night that so eerily reflected this one. The same biting air of the autumn, its fierce cold and the way it cut into Felix’s skin. 

Suddenly, though, Felix was drenched in warmth. Hot red liquid was streaming down his tunic and trousers, the heat familiar when it coursed through his veins, he felt odd, now, that it coated him from the outside. The body crumbled forward like a piece of paper that he would’ve spilled too much ink on, the grip on him loosened, and falling forward came the man who’d moments ago been about to kill him. 

With a cry, Felix shoved the body off of him. It must have no life left in it because it slipped to the ground without even trying to maintain posture. Using his sleeve to wipe the blood off of his face only led to it being smeared. He clenched his eyes shut and fought back hot tears. A maelstrom of thoughts swirled through his mind, his throat clenched in on itself, broken sobs threatened to choke his whole body.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and reflexively, Felix threw himself into a defensive position, eyes still shut. “Calm down,” rumbled a deep voice that Felix had no way to identify, but would someday know better than any other. “Let me clean your wound.” 

His savior from the assailant had been none other than the infamous Locus. As it was, on that very night, Locus had been searching for someone by the name of ‘Felix’. Due to increase of popularity and recognition, Locus could no longer safely operate alone. He required a partner, someone of incredible caliber, someone who would compliment his work style--and Felix was just the man for the job.

When they introduced themselves to one another, it felt like everything clicked into place. Felix needed a partner, Felix needed to have another person in his life again. It had been years since he last trusted another. And here Locus was, with the proposition of business partners. Locus needed Felix too, it seemed, and it was invigorating. 

Every case they took got easier. Patterns became apparent and habits fell into place, one person completed the other perfectly. It was a magnificent duo that began to paint the world in a familiar shade of crimson. Morals slowly dissipated, no reason to edify themselves. After all, kindness didn’t bring them riches and fame. 

As it turned out, Locus had entered the house alone. No one for Felix to play with. No body for him to dispose of before Locus caught on to his games. But above all else, thankfully, Locus was home. Felix waited for his partner to arrive each day, they needed each other, so it was only right for him to be so dependent.

Later on that night, Felix drank himself into a stupor unlike any other he had before and told Locus every moment of his life before they met. Detailing his rage and determination to kill his father and sister. Building the story in the way he did, drawing up the story of a young man who’d been framed for his mother’s murder, he was the hero of the story. Realistically, he knew, killing his family wouldn’t solve anything, but it would make him feel better. He told this to Locus, he told him with all of the sincerity in his heart, and Locus believed him. 

“Why have you not?” Locus inquired in that way that soothed Felix’s nerves. It was something about the sure way he spoke, about the confidence he had in what he wanted to say. It was why he only spoke a little and Felix spoke a lot. For Felix, he spoke often. Doing what he could to craft the perfect sentence and right meaning--Locus just had that prepared. Locus was lucky, capable of such precision. 

Felix told Locus why he hadn’t. That he’d been waiting. He wanted to make them suffer. Wanted them to know he was coming. Locus disapproved, of course. Felix knew that Locus had been better than him for years, in that regard. When he killed, it wasn’t to prove anything. Not to prove his worth, not to prove his value, it was to complete an objective. Why Locus was so obsessed, Felix would never know, not for a long time. 

“Tonight,” Felix insisted. “Let’s kill them tonight.” He was tired of waiting. He wanted his father dead now. If anything, he deemed himself deserving of it. 

Locus quirked an eyebrow. “You want my help?” When Felix asked him to elaborate, Locus sighed. “You seemed intent to do it yourself, is all.” 

“You’ve known me long enough now,” Felix spoke surely. “It would be right to do it together. I’ll handle one, you handle the other, it would all fit together... We’re partners, after all. We need each other, don’t we?” The mantra was familiar, so achingly familiar to who Felix was now. The reminder, the fear, that just like everyone else, Locus would throw him to the dirt. 

His partner nodded non-committedly, his eyes elsewhere. Felix felt they were lingering on his neck, in the place of the thick scar that had been carved upon their initial meeting. In a fit of self consciousness, Felix rose unsteadily, and proclaimed that they should take part in the slaughter immediately, that it was a game of fun and entertainment rather than a murder. 

Locus was hesitant. After all, while he didn’t possess a strict moral code, this was Felix’s life--his business. Locus sympathized with his partner but worried that murder was perhaps the wrong decision to make. Should he voice it? Should he not? Would it be too late, then, to back out? This was a partnership, a companionship, this was them trusting each other. 

So reluctantly, very reluctantly, Locus agreed to help Felix with his insane conquest. Felix was so ecstatic, so elated, that in mere moments he was dragging Locus along, hoping to catch the nearest buggy so that they could set out immediately on such an adventure. The one full of vengeance and selfishness, though, neither addressed such thoughts. Felix believed he was doing this for them. Locus forced himself to swallow down the lie that this was an act of camaraderie and partnership. This was part of the tie that bonded them. No longer was this about work. This was about them. About Felix making the full departure from his past. 

That very night, after a hardly perilous trek to the once familiar mansion that Felix once knew as his personal abode, and the swift murder of the buggy driver--much to Locus’ dismay--they were at the scene of which plagued Felix’s mind. Red hazed over his vision, all he could remember was the way the air dug its nails deep into him and buried inside, making a home and filling him with a frigid, everlasting cold. 

Entering the household, immediately, Felix noted every trace of him and his mother were gone. Not a single sign that he once had a life here. No, instead, photos of his sister and another child emerged and hung on the walls. Years had passed since then, and Felix felt the familiar sting of replacement stab at his heart. Of course he was replaced, of course he had not been good enough, every one left him. 

He turned to face Locus, but he saw the other man was preoccupied with evaluating the setting, and not in the observational way he did so keenly. Where normally his silver eyes would take in each sight with an analytical eye only, it was clear his mind was racing with thoughts of pity. The larger man turned his gaze to Felix briefly, a small furrow to the thick dark eyebrows that adorned his olive skin. “It does not look as though you lived here,” he stated, maintaining a neutral tone. 

Felix said nothing in return, for the first time in his life. He’d always been wordy, always had a word in one thing or another, it was just another reason why his family had been quick to cast him aside. No, instead of speaking, Felix’s inner turmoil was screaming at him to make his move. Kill his family--he didn’t need them. He had Locus. He did not need another person. 

Gesturing for Locus to follow him, he led him into the next room. There, he saw a framed photo of his mother, cut oddly, as if removing another person from the image. Felix knew the photo well, as he had the same worn picture in an old locket. It made his blood run cold--how dare they keep that photo. They had no right to keep her name, no right to hold her legacy. Her beauty and kindness, they did not deserve her, no. 

He found his father in his old, worn, leather chair. The elder man had his eyes shut, and briefly, Felix wondered if he should kill him in his sleep. It would be quicker that way, less painful, but that also meant his father would not know it was him who slit his throat and watched him dirty the house with his blood, the same house he attempted to keep so pristine.

Instead, he carved a line down his father’s chest. “Wake up, father,” he called mockingly. His father’s eyes shot open, the pain forcing him awake. “You did this to me,” he hissed, tears burning in the back of his eyes. “I never wanted this!” 

His father simply shook his head. “You are delusional, Felix. You killed your mother, it was your own fault.” Felix knew he should’ve said something in return, but instead, he plunged the knife into the old man’s throat. He wasn’t the cause for her death, he wasn’t, he knew he wasn’t because she told him he wasn’t. Before she went unconscious, she promised him she knew it was an accident. He didn’t mean to lash out at his sister, and he certainly didn’t mean for his mother to step in the way. 

From the other room, he heard a pitiful scream. It must have been Locus, then, doing what he promised. He was helping Felix, he believed Felix, he understood that Felix hadn’t done anything wrong. Felix hadn’t manipulated, Felix hadn’t lied, it was the truth. He wasn’t the bad guy, he didn’t do anything, it was all his sister, all his father, all an accident, it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t--

As Felix entered the room, his sister was holding up papers frantically, trying to explain something to Felix’s partner. “Felix killed her. He can’t cope with that. It’s his fault. It always was his fault. She wasn’t my mother, but she was my nanny, and I cared for her. Felix hated me. It’s all here. This report shows it--Felix killed her with a knife. We didn’t cast him out, he ran away!” 

Locus shook his head. “That’s not true,” he argued, and turned to Felix for support. “It isn’t. I know Felix.” 

Felix stalked forward, a crazed and maniacal look to his eye. He rose the knife above him, his sister was defenseless, and in a moment, he had brought the knife down into her chest. He did not rest, though, as he ripped it out and repeated the process until both him and Locus were covered in blood. Felix began to laugh. He laughed, and he laughed, until there were tears streaming down his face and mixing with the blood that pooled around his knees and ankles. 

“Felix,” Locus whispered, disbelief in his voice. “What have you done?” 

Felix choked out an odd sound. “I didn’t kill her, Locus, you have to believe me, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know--” every conflicting story he’d ever told piled up at once. 

Locus stared at him. He looked down at Felix’s sister. “Were they all innocent, Felix?” 

“No one is innocent,” Felix retorted sharply. “Locus, we aren’t innocent. We both have so much blood on our hands... but we have it together. It’s us, Locus. We need each other.” He cradled the knife to his chest, keeping the blade pointed toward himself now. 

“No,” Locus responded, in that once so-soothing voice. “We don’t.” And, to completely sever the hideous bond they’d once made, Locus shoved the knife forward.


End file.
